


Bang and Burn

by SuperficialPeasant



Series: Assassins!Malec AU [2]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alec Is The Flirty One, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assassin Alec Lightwood, Assassin Fluff, Assassin Magnus Bane, Assassin Malec AU, Assassins Definitely Not Falling In Love, Assassins Driving Each Other Nuts, BAMF Magnus Bane, Disgruntled Career Veteran Magnus Bane, Eager Newbie Alec Lightwood, First Dates, M/M, Magnus Is The Confused One, Moral Dilemmas, Mundane Malec AU, Reverse-Roles, Sequel to 'Dirty Water'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21817702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperficialPeasant/pseuds/SuperficialPeasant
Summary: Magnus and Alec navigate first dates, feelings and the growing pains of forced cohabitation as they try to survive the deadly bounty on their heads (Sequel to “Dirty Water”).
Relationships: Magnus Bane & Alec Lightwood, Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Series: Assassins!Malec AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1572085
Comments: 120
Kudos: 506





	Bang and Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Hi folks! It's been a while! People seemed to like **[Dirty Water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19739194)** as much as I did - so I wrote a sequel! It’s probably worth reading that before you dig in here, as this story is a direct continuation. 
> 
> “Bang and Burn” is Assassin/industry terminology for when an operation is demolished or sabotaged. Written while listening to Phantom Planet’s “Geronimo”, Big Data’s “Dangerous” and Maxence Cyrin’s piano cover of “Where Is My Mind?”
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> #SuperficialPea  
> Twitter: [@SuperficialPea](http://twitter.com/SuperficialPea)

It had been a simple plan, really.

Bruno was a known chicken feeder, a man who knew a bit about everyone and everything and relinquished information for the right cash. He also had a thing for one particular brunette down at the local Hooters, one he’d been known to visit religiously whenever he passed through Westminster, at least for the last three years Magnus had known him. So he’d been down at the restaurant, had spent a solid evening drinking two dollar pints, watching football and unloading his wallet into the waistband of his favourite waitress before returning a little worse for wear to the flea-infested Motel 6 he had booked for the night. He was a tall, bald meatsack of a guy - as noticeable in a crowd as a giant testicle - so he hadn’t been hard to track or get in front of. The rest of Magnus’ plan had been a matter of shaking him down for the information he needed, crossing him off, and going about his merry way.

Except, now he had Lightwood attached to his hip, and Bruno wasn’t as tolerant of the new face as Magnus had come to be. It had caused a minor exchange of fisticuffs, which had led to Lightwood being injured. Which had lead to him shooting Bruno in the leg as recompense. Which had led to Bruno shrieking loud enough to wake the entire building, and Magnus shooting him in the head before any of their questions could be asked.

It’s why he finds himself currently staring at Bruno’s slumped body and the splatter of brain bits on the wall, wondering how the very simple plan had so promptly gone down the shitter.

Lightwood has the gall to hiss at him, “Why’d you shoot him?!”

“Why’d _I_ shoot him?” Magnus glares back, incredulously, “I was trying to stop him from telling the whole fucking state that we’re here. Why’d _you_ shoot him?”

“He almost tore my arm off,” Lightwood shrugs - then grimaces, his left hand going to his right shoulder, “ _Ow_.”

Magnus steps over the suitcase spewing clothes across the carpet and gently pushes Lightwood’s hand aside, peeling his jacket back. A quick look under his t-shirt confirms a small red patch blossoming beneath his white wound dressing. His stitches have been pulled open. Ouch.

Magnus breathes _in_ , two, three, four, and _out_ , two, three, four, deciding to put the plan on pause, at least for tonight. It’s better to leave before Lightwood starts dripping DNA all over the scene. It’s also a good idea to leave now, before he has to endure another of Lightwood’s gripe sessions the entire car ride back. He’s had enough of those in the past 48 hours to want to rethink this whole partnered-up situation and throw the kid out of the nearest window.

“Come on,” Magnus steers him out of the room, pausing for Lightwood to pick Bruno’s cellphone up from the floor. He waves it at Magnus, like it might come in handy later, “We’ve gotta get out of here.”

“Sorry I ruined the plan.”

“It’s fine. We wouldn’t have gotten much out of him anyway.”

Lightwood almost doubles back halfway out the door, as if Bruno’s sagged corpse is goading him into another fight, and Magnus has to steer him straight ahead, “Did you see the _look_ he gave me? I wanted to punch it right off his---”

“ _Shhh shhh shhhhh_. I know.”

“ _Beady-eyed fuck_.”

“Good thing I shot him then, huh?”

He’s learned a lot about his new companion in the 48 hours they’ve been together. Like the fact that Lightwood is a very simple creature who tends to go a bit starry-eyed when Magnus plays the chivalrous white knight. Magnus had taken responsibility for Lightwood’s injuries, not only for causing them but mostly because they’re a team now, and they can’t afford to get caught or slip up. So he’s doing his best to keep Lightwood in step with him. If that means using a bit of flattery and heroics to bring him into line, so be it.

One look at Lightwood’s lopsided smile tells Magnus he’s got him back on the leash.

“Yeah,” Lightwood answers, dreamily. As if Magnus has defended his honor in some way and he’s preening about it.

Magnus shakes his head. There's a good chance this kid and his unwarranted crush on him is going to bring about his demise. However, there’s a tiny little ball in his chest that grows warm and bouncy whenever Lightwood goes a bit goofy on him. And it’s not the worst feeling ever, so he can’t find it in himself to be all that bothered by it. 

Being part of a team after 15 years of solo work won’t be easy. But it’s kind of nice not being alone for once.

  
  
  
  
  


Half an hour later, they’re back at one of Magnus’ many personal safe houses, kept off the books beyond the knowledge of his firm. The warehouse has the barest of necessities, but it’s enough for them to lie low for a while. Long enough for Lightwood to heal up.

It’s usually deceptively easy to travel as an assassin. Civilian aliases had always enabled him to move freely around the world, but it’s a much different story when trying to evade his own people. If he and Lightwood have indeed been set up to take each other out, then no one can know they’re still breathing, let alone plotting to take revenge. It’s going to be even harder to go unnoticed now that they’re travelling together.

After a rather turbulent 12 hour mission to evacuate Paris, Magnus had been forced to pull one of his alternate aliases - another his firm didn’t know about - and traded out his French cash stash to get them on a private jet back to the US. He’d spent most of the flight being a human shield between Lightwood and the pilot’s line of sight, just to keep the guy from getting familiar with their faces. Because if they failed to stay under the radar, they’d lose the element of surprise. If they _did_ lose the element of surprise, it was better for one of them to be presumed dead. So keeping Lightwood’s head down had been plan A, plan B and every other plan following that, until they could step into a safehouse and figure out their next move.

But it hasn’t been easy.

“ _Owww_ ,” Lightwood whines now, lower lip protruding with great exaggeration.

“What do you mean ‘oww’? I numbed it.”

“But it feels _weird_.”

Another thing Magnus is learning about Lightwood: he’s a total drama queen.

He works quietly as he re-sutures Lightwood’s bullet wound, hissing occasionally when he gets jarred or bumped. But it’s relatively without issue, which is a minor miracle considering his new companion has the poise and patience of a fucking toddler.

When Magnus is done covering it up with a new, sterile dressing, he snaps his gloves off and catches the strange, silent accusations in Lightwood’s eyes.

“Did you go to med school?”

Magnus scoffs, “That’d be a big no.”

“How’d you learn to do this?”

“Well...you’ve either got to be good at killing, or you’ve got to be good at stitching yourself up,” Magnus replies, sealing the adhesive edges of the dressing with a careful finger, “I decided to be good at both.”

Lightwood nudges him in the hip with his knee, “Overachiever.”

“Coming in handy though, aren’t I?”

“Do I really need to remind you that _you’re_ the reason I have a hole in my shoulder?”

“Because you’re not already doing that ten times a day,” Magnus mutters, reaching for Lightwood’s left elbow, carefully feeling around the bone, “Swelling is going down. What’s your pain like?”

“Four,” Lightwood answers, “But only because I banged it earlier.”

“Nothing’s fractured then,” Magnus surmises, a little relieved. He doesn’t need his new partner benched with _two_ weak arms. He tosses him the ibuprofen and passes over the bottle of water from the table next to the bed, then gets to restrapping Lightwood’s elbow, “Would be a good idea to stay in for a few days. Give you a rest.”

Lightwood swallows a couple of pills and chugs the rest of the bottle, wiping his mouth, “I’m fine.”

“Had to be a fucking hero tonight though, didn’t you. And now your shoulder is back to square one.”

Lightwood glares, “You _shot_ me.”

Magnus shrugs, “Yeah well, wasn’t aware of your psychotic crush until I’d already put one in you.”

Lightwood’s glare soon morphs into a smug smirk, and Magnus already sees the suggestive comment coming well before he opens his mouth to speak it, “I’d like it better if you put your---”

“ _Shuddit_.”

Magnus makes a big production of putting his supplies away, if only to avoid revealing the smile beginning to lift his lips against his will. He writes a note in his cellphone to replace his lidocaine and swaps out the empty bottle of water at Lightwood’s side with a new one, before a hand snakes around his wrist and tugs him to sit back down.

Lightwood takes a deep breath, and then he’s staring him in the eyes with a great deal of seriousness. Magnus hasn’t got a clue what he’s about to say, but Lightwood has a tendency for sappiness when he’s not blurting out every innuendo that comes to his one-track mind, so the odds aren’t exactly in Magnus’ favor. Still, he hopes it’s about the job. Their firms. Their bosses. _Anything_ work related.

“I’ll stop complaining about how you shot me, if you kiss it better.”

He _really_ should have seen that one coming.

Magnus throws him a deadpanned look, “That’s funny. I didn’t know you were concussed.”

“Kissing an injury better is actually proven to help the healing process,” Lightwood’s mouth quirks at the corners; the beginnings of a grin. He valiantly attempts to remain straight-faced, like that might make Magnus take him at his word, “There’s real research on the link between mindset and healing and how the alleviation of emotional trauma helps cellular repair.”

“Oh, so you’re emotionally traumatized now---”

“ _Real_ research. I can show you a YouTube video if you want.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Please,” Lightwood whines again, bringing his pout back out. He even kicks out one of his legs on the bed impatiently, which has Magnus immediately regretting not aiming his gun two more inches to the right, " _Please?_ "

He rolls his eyes, which only provokes Lightwood into another full lung of begging. Magnus knows it’s bait, but he lets it snap the rest of his patience like the little twig bitch he is.

“All right, all right--- _all right all right!_ I got it! _Jesus._ ”

He knocks Lightwood’s hands aside when they make a reach for his face, because he may be giving in to his demands, but he gets to control how he does it. He doesn’t feel too annoyed about it, because if there _is_ any merit to the so-called research Lightwood speaks of, then it's in his own best interests that his new partner be healed up as quickly as possible. If only to prevent his own slow descent into whatever trouble this kid will inevitably drag him into.

So he leans in and carefully presses his lips to Lightwood's shoulder, right over the brand new bandage. He feels like an absolute dickhead.

When he lifts his head, the sickly-sweet fondness all over Lightwood's attractive face makes him feel a little _less_ like a dickhead. That tiny ball in his chest squeezes pleasantly, squeezes even tighter as Lightwood leans forward, eyes honed on Magnus’ mouth. Magnus doesn’t move, but he feels the air shift between them, growing thick with tension. That familiar, heavy urge to cross those barest of inches and kiss Lightwood the way he did 48 hours ago - wildly, relentlessly, all-consuming - is suddenly almost too much to ignore.

Lightwood’s inviting murmur touches his lips, all but drawing him in, "You like me.”

Magnus swallows, suddenly dry-mouthed, "Do not."

"You _like me_ like me,” Lightwood goes on, lightly teasing the warm tip of his nose along Magnus’ cheek, “And not just with your dick, which gets me really...really... _hot_.”

It takes him a moment, because the pull between them is strong enough that he can feel a pathetic little groan sitting in his throat, ready to spill his secrets. He barely refrains from leaning into Lightwood’s sexy little nuzzle as it is. But Magnus soon regains his bearings - because _workdangerfeelings_ \- and then he’s rearing back just to shove him away, finger to his forehead.

“You’re a menace.”

Lightwood seems only heartened by his rejection. As if he’s happy to have confirmed his suspicions. He grins a dirty little grin, mightily pleased with himself.

“Don’t go falling in love with me, Bane.”

“ _Sleep_ ,” Magnus tells him, already up and moving toward the warehouse’s side exit, “I’ll keep a lookout.”

“There’s no one coming. Cuddle me.”

“ _Goodnight_ , Lightwood.”

Magnus hears his smugness give way to a frustrated huff and shuffle under the bed covers, almost ripping them up to his shoulders. He glances over as Lightwood flops onto his other side, turning away from him. Fluffing his pillow with a few punches, bed springs pinging angrily beneath his aggression. Magnus exerts a copious amount of energy trying not to smile. But he fails and does it anyway.

It’s fine. No one has to know.

  
  
  
  
  


Magnus’ usual default when seeking out information is to hit across the lower ranks. Chicken feeders like Bruno carried only harmless, useless sorts of information, just enough to set someone in a direction. But first year triggermen were usually so green around the ears that they tended to squeal under the smallest of pressure, and street grunts were mostly walking, talking ring-binders of information, easily swayed by the right currency. Easy targets with minimum effort required.

But Magnus’ new troublemaking partner is up for sending a message. Which ideally includes taking down the biggest, baddest top dog they can find, making an example of them, and having their employers shitting into their collective boots. 

Though with their _modi operandi_ widely known, they have no choice but to switch it up. So they throw knives at a map of the US and pursue the nearest contact they can find. Everyone they track down attempts to play ignorant, but it’s soon clear much of their immediate contacts have been asked to keep an eye out for them. And since Magnus wants them to be assumed dead for as long as they can get away with, that means anyone who figures out they _aren’t_ dead gets a swift bullet to the head.

Surprisingly, cutting a bloody swathe through their community isn’t the hard part.

Their first week is spent taking shifts, making sure they haven’t been spotted and followed. Magnus sleeps during the day while Lightwood sleeps at night, both keeping a look out while the other is resting. To Magnus, it’s an intelligent, strategic choice. Lightwood, however, acts like it’s designed purely to ruin his life, and he takes every available opportunity to ensure Magnus knows the extent of his annoyance.

“It’s not going to kill you to share a bed with me, Bane,” Lightwood growls one evening, “You know we’d get a lot more done if we clocked out at the same time. _And you said there’d be snuggling!_ ”

He endures a week of Lightwood’s non-stop moaning before he caves to his demands, and then he’s having to deal with Lightwood’s long, heated limbs curling around him each night, constricting like a python would its prey. Some nights, he wants his space so bad that he sleeps with his knees against Lightwood’s back, ready to shove him off the bed and onto the warehouse’s stone floor at a moment’s notice. Other nights, he’s so exhausted from the job that he melts against the mattress and sleeps squashed beneath Lightwood’s sprawled body. _Without_ the protests.

There are also some nights where cuddling Magnus against his will isn’t enough for Lightwood, and his hands stray in search of other things. Those nights, Magnus will indulge him, letting Lightwood bring him off while he reciprocates. But when Lightwood leans across the space to kiss him, Magnus bobs and weaves. Because Lightwood has gotten his way more times than either of them can keep track of - and when they kiss, Magnus forgets all the things he’s supposed to be and do. He’s determined to draw a line somewhere.

He’s also a little terrified. Because there are days when Lightwood _doesn’t_ ogle him or take over his personal space. Days when he’s just inside his own head, thinking about things Magnus doesn’t know or understand. And Lightwood is so quiet, so painfully beautiful to look at that in those moments that Magnus’ heart starts thumping a little heavier beneath his ribs, surprised and panicky and alien.

_Don’t go falling in love with me, Bane._

It’s not so much that he’s afraid he might kiss Lightwood and never stop. He’s afraid that he might kiss Lightwood and then spend the rest of his life making sure he doesn’t _have to_ stop.

  
  
  
  
  


Once Lightwood’s stitches are out, he insists they celebrate by going out to dinner. Magnus is under no illusions. Lightwood wants a _date_.

He spends a week telling Magnus what he wants included in said date, because Lightwood doesn’t do hints. A restaurant with a view, fancy candles, ambient lighting and a menu he can’t pronounce. Flowers, because he’s never been given flowers before and he kind of wants to know what it’s like to receive them. Chocolate cake for desert, with two forks so they can share. The whole monstrosity. Magnus absolutely refuses to write it all down, because he’s never hired a limousine for a date before and he’s not about to start now. Regardless of how handsome Lightwood is, or how great his butt and thighs look in fitted pants.

When their next target takes them to Asheville, North Carolina, Magnus does a quick search on his phone for the closest thing to five star dining. That lands them at _Bouchon_ , a cozy French restaurant and bar. It’s not the most luxurious place to go, and it’s probably not what Lightwood was after. But Magnus secretly calls the restaurant ahead of time to ask if they have chocolate cake on their menu and candles on their tables, and he figures that’ll be enough for the _date-not-date-_ yes _-date_ they’re supposed to be having.

And it seems to do the trick. Magnus wears one of his best suits, because it’s one hell of an ego boost watching Lightwood go cross-eyed with arousal. Lightwood also feasts his excited eyes on all of the restaurant decor while he munches on breadsticks. He blushes right down into his collar when Magnus takes charge in ordering their drinks. He rests his elbow on the table, chin in his hand, listening and smiling and looking genuinely, adorably content, and Magnus doesn’t feel weird about it. Lightwood’s gooey smile and his dancing eyes and those delightful fucking crows feet that appear when he laughs are all Magnus’ doing. And it feels _good_.

Of course, that’s when things go bad.

Lightwood’s water glass explodes on the table, as soon as he’s done taking a sip. Magnus swipes everything off - cutlery, glasses, their barely touched meals - and knocks the table onto its side to use as cover. He drags Lightwood down beside him as a second, third, and a _fourth, fifth, sixth_ bullet whizzes past them. A seventh passes through the table, right between their heads as they stare at each other, wide-eyed.

They’ve been made.

Magnus ignores the patrons screaming and fleeing around them, too fixated on the dark cloud of disappointment turning Lightwood’s face villainous. The blind rage at seeing their romantic dinner strewn about the restaurant courtyard. 

“I didn’t even get to try my steak,” Lightwood laments venomously, as he pulls his pistol from inside his jacket, unlocking the safety. In one smooth move, he leans up to shoot over the table’s edge, shoulders braced for the kickback, jaw clenched. He pops off three bullets without blinking and crouches back down, dress pants pulling tight over his cute, round butt. Magnus hears a man let out an inhuman wail in the distance and really can’t help but agree.

He lifts his eyes away from Lightwood’s ass, “How many?”

“Too many for my eyes,” Lightwood growls back, “Fuckin’ Oakland, that rat bastard.”

John Oakland, Lightwood’s boss. There’s no way either of their employers are out in the field doing their own dirty work, so Magnus assumes their attackers are from Lightwood’s firm. Clearly too many for them to take out, which means pretty soon, everyone they’ve ever met or worked with will know they’re both alive and well. There’s probably a hefty cash reward for their heads too. It’ll be open season. _Fuck_.

Magnus arms his SIG Sauer, “We should pull back through the restaurant. Let them chase us out. Then we can double back for the car.”

Lightwood shakes his head, breathing out of his nose like a pissed-off bull, “ _Or_ , I could just kill them all.”

Magnus doesn’t get another chance to tell him how inconvenient that plan is, because Lightwood is suddenly gone, shooting anyone he recognizes. Magnus tries to cover him as best he can, swearing and taking out three people aiming in Lightwood’s direction and another shooting from a passing car, which proceeds to plow into a row of parked vehicles, setting off multiple alarms. 

Once the flying bullets have stopped, they’re left in an eerie silence. Magnus tries to get eyes on Lightwood and finds him straddling someone near the bushes, grunting and shouting as he beats them senseless with his bare fists.

“We…” _Punch_. “...were on…” _Punch_. “...a _date!_ ” _Punch_.

When Magnus is done pulling Lightwood off him, they make a run for it, careening down the street toward their car in a flash of battle-ragged suits and shiny shoes. Lightwood doesn’t talk the whole ride home, choosing instead to glare through his window into Asheville’s Tuesday nightlife like it should have been his to have. Magnus tunes the radio to the nearest station. Sure enough, word of their shootout is already beginning to break over the local news. A giant red dot on their employers’ radar. That means anywhere public or under CCTV surveillance is off limits for the foreseeable future. No more dates.

Lightwood doesn’t take it well.

  
  
  
  
  


Their first major argument ensues. Lightwood is livid about their botched date. Magnus makes the mistake of telling him that ruined dinner plans are the least of their worries. Lightwood is even _more_ livid that he doesn’t care. Which leads to Magnus storming out of their shitty motel and leaving him behind to stew, even though he finds Lightwood’s priorities both ridiculous and annoyingly endearing. He spends the next hour carefully doubling, even tripling back to ensure he’s not followed or seen by law enforcement as he traipses across the city in search of supplies. An attempt to salvage the rest of the evening.

Lightwood is calling him every name under the sun as soon as he walks back through the door, picking up his rant exactly where he left off. Magnus gets to work, pulling things out of paper bags. Like the two sets of stainless steel cutlery and the small pile of table linens he’d swiped from a restaurant he’d pretended to use the bathroom at. Like the styrofoam containers of İskenders he’d ordered at the Turkish restaurant a few blocks over. Like the _fucking flowers_ he bought from a gas station on the other side of town, looking worse for wear after a full day of waiting to be purchased.

Since there’s only one chair, Magnus yanks the small motel room desk over toward the bed, and he stuffs the flowers into a coffee mug beside the food. Once he’s finished setting everything up, Lightwood is long finished yelling. Instead, he’s staring quizzically at the presentation in front of him, like his ability to verbalize what he’s seeing has been cut with a scissor’s snip. It’s the first moment of the entire evening where Magnus hasn’t been mad, worried or sick to his stomach with nervous anticipation. He can finally hear himself _think_.

“You wanted a date,” he growls, trying to pull his anger back to something a little more sincere, “Here’s your date. So are we gonna do this or are you gonna keep sulking?”

Lightwood blinks, realization dawning, “You...you…”

“Yes. I did.”

Lightwood gazes up at him now; a sudden, powerful combination of all the sappiest glances he’s ever thrown at him, and Magnus can barely stand to look. He knows the kid is a crazy romantic and that nice gestures make him happy. But besides buying a meal and being friendly, Magnus doesn’t have a lot of genuine dating experience outside of faking it for marks. He takes a seat on the bed before Lightwood can open his mouth and make it weird. Because Magnus knows him well enough to predict that he _will_ make things weird. He finds himself both annoyed and charmed at the idea.

“Eat,” he gruffly suggests, gesturing at the food, “It’s gonna get cold.”

He’s almost in the clear, but then Lightwood spots the contents of the smaller container and freezes on his way to putting his butt on the chair. Magnus turns to his own food, obsessively mixing pickled beetroot and tabouli through his rice. Purposely ignoring the single serve slice of Devil’s food cake with two accompanying plastic forks currently holding Lightwood’s attention.

“I know it’s not the one you were after,” he murmurs, “But it’s close.”

“It’s _perfect_ ,” Lightwood mumbles quietly, staring down at the dessert intensely. Like it’s not a shitty two dollar slice of diner cake but a solid bar of gold. Magnus tries not to watch the tiny mental breakdown Lightwood is having across from him, because he looks like he’s about to start bawling. Magnus is equipped to deal with 50 armed men stampeding their motel room in the next five minutes, if it turns out he was followed. He’s not, however, equipped to deal with Lightwood _crying_.

He clears his throat, “Sit. _Eat_. Or I’ll eat your cake for you.”

Lightwood slumps into the seat, stunned and still. There’s a short moment where Magnus actually believes Lightwood is going to eat his dinner without fuss, but that assumption quickly evaporates when he catches the tell-tale sheen of actual tears cresting in Lightwood’s eyes.

Magnus puts his fork down, heaving a sigh.

“You’re an idiot,” he tells him, and it comes out way softer and far less annoyed than he’d intended. Just shy of a confession. Entirely too vulnerable and aware for his own comfort.

Lightwood looks up from the table spread and flushes, pink-cheeked and starry eyed. Smiling that fuckin’ dopey, soft smile of his. _Don’t go falling in love with me, Bane._

Oh, hell.

Lightwood rises out of his seat without a word, then side-steps the table to push him down onto the bed. There, he gives him warm, adoring smooches that transform into deep, devouring, breath-stealing kisses, and Magnus’ chest feels much like Lightwood’s beaming smiles look - sunny, sparkling and overwhelming. All of his previous resistance disappears, remedied with wandering hands that hold Lightwood as close as he can, however he can, as much as he can. He gets so lost in the surrender of it, that by the time he really understands what’s going on, Lightwood is straddled naked above him, trying to get Magnus hard enough to roll a condom onto.

Now it’s _his_ turn to struggle with words, “But I--- _dinner_ \---”

Lightwood shushes him gently, working his tight little ass onto Magnus’ dick like he might die if he doesn’t get it in. Then they begin to fuck like a couple of stunned animals, moving instinctually. They pause momentarily to get the rest of Magnus’ clothes off, then continue with a renewed energy and focus and freedom, enjoying the feel of each other’s bodies finally naked together. Because this is their first time, and while Magnus will surely deny it until it makes him look incompetent, it _matters_. To Lightwood. To him, for however long it lasts.

Once he regains some sense, Magnus tips them over until he’s rocking in the cradle of Lightwood’s thighs. It’s nothing more than Lightwood’s affections and Magnus’ grudging enjoyment of them made physical. But the pleasure renders Magnus apart at the seams, leaves him exposed in a way that’ll make things harder from here on out. He loses himself as Lightwood loses _him_ self, talking and moaning quietly into Magnus’ ear in a way that makes him shiver, and there’s nowhere for either of them to go but down the rabbithole together.

When Lightwood’s arms open to take him in, he can’t find a reason to not fall into them. And when Lightwood gazes up at him, breathlessly smug and spent, Magnus kisses him again. And again. And then again, because it’s suddenly become physically impossible for him not to, just as he’d feared.

The roasted meat of their dinners is long cold by the time they come back up for air.

They move the table’s contents to the bed and eat there, calmer than they’ve both been in the entire time they’ve known each other. Unapologetically butt naked. Magnus glances over to where his gun sits loaded on the pile of his jeans and goes back to dinner, and conversation, and leaning into the little smooches Lightwood can’t seem to stop pressing into his neck. Give the guy an inch and he’ll take the whole fucking mile.

Magnus isn’t even mad. He’s disgustingly happy, actually. So happy that the concept of happiness itself feels brand new. Not that he’ll ever admit it out loud.

He even lets Lightwood feed him cake, and he doesn’t complain about it once.

  
  
  
  
  


They leave Asheville quietly in the early hours.

Lightwood had been tired and difficult to get moving, too content to sleep plastered along Magnus’ warm, bare body. He’d looked so put out with his messy hair, his pouting and the pink mark on his face from Magnus’ chest, that when he’d asked for Magnus to wake him up properly - _with his penis_ \- Magnus had let himself be dragged back into the sheets to oblige him. Lightwood had been showered, dressed and snuggled up in the passenger seat of the car an hour later.

Another of the many things Magnus has learned about him; Lightwood is far more agreeable as a person when he’s been dicked well.

They’ve crossed state lines toward Anderson by the time the sun’s glow is on the horizon, minutes away from flooding the sky in golden light. Magnus pulls into a McDonald’s drive through to grab coffee and breakfast sandwiches, and Lightwood barely wakes up to get them in his belly before he’s back to dozing. Magnus reaches over to move the hood of his sweater away from his face, just to have a better view of him while he drives.

Twenty minutes out of town, Lightwood’s sleepy bulk shifts down in his seat and reaches for Magnus’ hand, proceeding to take possession of it. Magnus spends the next hour fighting the growing cramp in his arm, just so the kid doesn’t have to let him go.

He glances over to check on him, as he has countless times during the drive so far. And he hears it again like a bell’s toll. 

_Don’t go falling in love with me, Bane._

Staring at Lightwood’s soft face, plush lips and pretty lashes is something he can at least attempt to deny. But seeing the way his free hand is nestled protectively between Lightwood’s palms as he sleeps, isn't. Because Lightwood sure as hell isn't holding a gun to his head. And there's no logical, strategic reason why Magnus himself has threaded their fingers together. It hits him like a battering ram to the solar plexus.

Turning his eyes back to the road, Magnus mutters in grim realization, “Ah, fuck.”

  
  
  
  
  


Finding people to give them information becomes easier, but getting out alive becomes a lot harder. They learn contractors in all corners of their industry are swarming toward their last known location, because they run into multiple contacts between North Carolina and Georgia. And all of them are jonesing for the substantial cash prize their corpses will provide.

The information they extract comes together to form a bigger picture. Thrown together with what they already know, it’s the closest thing to a confirmation as they can get. For pretty appalling reasons, even for hitmen.

Magnus had been originally led to believe that his boss wanted Lightwood out of the game because he’d been busting into big jobs with heavy payloads - with no regard for protocol - which had been costing his firm money. Lightwood had been told that Magnus was the King of high profile international assassinations, a powerful veteran in his field who was beginning to make people nervous for his nasty habit of falling off the grid. He was also locking Lightwood’s firm out of the type of government contracts they wanted to venture into. So Magnus had been sent to cross off Lightwood on behalf of his firm, and Lightwood had been sent to cross Magnus off on behalf of his.

Except, the crucial, missing puzzle piece is the part where Magnus’ boss and Lightwood’s boss had been meeting up on the side, looking for an amicable way to fix their business problems without treading on each other’s toes. They’d come to an unusual settlement: both companies would negotiate new territory and possible partnerships - but first, they’d sacrifice their problematic contractors in order to steady their rocking boats. 2 birds, 1 stone. The equivalent of a business restructuring.

Lightwood doesn’t take that well, either.

“How are you not mad about this?!” he fumes that evening, as they climb into bed for the night.

Magnus shrugs, “It’s the nature of the job.”

Lightwood scoffs repeatedly with great indignance, glaring at him like he’s insane, “Uh hey! _They want us dead!_ ”

“We assassinate people for a living,” Magnus hisses quietly, glancing toward the hotel room walls in warning, “There’s no such thing as loyalty between killers.”

“If there’s no loyalty between killers then what do we have left, Magnus?!” Lightwood all but shakes his fist at the ceiling, “ _What do we have left_.”

Magnus rolls his eyes and leans over to switch his bedside lamp off, purposely hiding his growing smirk. The kid’s dramatics originally drove him up the wall, but these days he’s barely holding himself back from stuffing a sock into his own mouth just so Lightwood can’t hear him laugh.

When Lightwood finally gives up the fight and flops into bed with a frustrated puff, Magnus opens his arms wide in silent invitation. Lightwood eyes him curiously, because it’s unusual for Magnus to cuddle without first being annoyed or goaded or forced into it. Though he quickly shuffles to get closer when Magnus makes a move to revoke his offer.

Once he’s settled in, Magnus closes his arms around his big, broad shoulders. They lie together for some time, relaxing their bodies into the mattress after a hard day of watching the other shoe drop. Truth is, Magnus _is_ angry. He’s been falling more and more off the grid in the last few years, testing his own ability to disappear in preparation for the day when he finally decides to hang it all up. Because no one in this line of work gets to leave, and they certainly don’t get out alive.

He’d known his boss would try to take him down eventually. But he’d expected there to be a better reason. Surely the firm’s best contractor was worth more than that, after all the money he’d made it.

“Is there loyalty between _us?_ ” Lightwood mumbles worriedly now, lips sleepy and muffled on Magnus’ shirt.

Magnus has never had to think about it before, because the only person he’s ever been loyal to is himself. Is he committed to the job they’re trying to do? Yes. But is he loyal to Lightwood beyond that? He doesn’t have an easy answer, at least one his comrade will be satisfied with.

So he fakes a soft snore into Lightwood’s shower-damp hair and pretends he’s fallen asleep instead.

  
  
  
  
  


The betrayal lights a fire under them.

They dress down and ditch their vehicle. They start changing up their methods of transport, taking short economy flights, trains, even buses between rental cars. Anything to get them as far away from the hot zones they leave in their wake. Lightwood is reluctant at first, suggesting Bugattis and other lavish, speedy travel, but he soon changes his mind when he sees the benefits of travelling incognito in public. Like snuggling up as a couple of weary travellers, sharing a pair of headphones. Holding hands where people can see, like it makes what they have more real somehow. Lightwood’s happiness grows with each passing day. Meanwhile, the pit in Magnus’ stomach does much the same.

They go after the biggest names in their community - assassins, killers and con men like Three Buck Chuck, the McGreary brothers, Fontaine Jones and Cussy Caroline - just to cause widespread panic. Because they’re pissed, and they’ve had enough, and their bosses can’t protect themselves if they have no one left to shield them. Plus, without their best and brightest earning them money, it’ll hit them where it hurts most - in their bank accounts.

But Savita Khan - otherwise known as the Dutchess of Tobago - is an awful, unexpected surprise and much more difficult to tussle with.

She piggy-backs their confrontation with another con man, which catches them unprepared for her level of expertise. Lightwood has never met her before, so he doesn’t understand Magnus’ sudden wariness or how quick he needs to be. Which has Magnus trying to prevent Lightwood from being shot as they attempt to escape the brothel - and ends with him getting one of the Duchess’ poisoned darts embedded in the flesh of his inner elbow.

He makes a point of putting her down first, because if she’s dead, that means Lightwood still has a chance. Then he’s wobbling - lightheaded and blurry-eyed - down onto his knees and onto his butt before anyone can catch him. 

Lightwood pats him down, searching for a wound, “Magnus? Magnus, what’s wrong?”

His arm begins to burn, and it may only be panic making his heart do flipflops right now, but soon enough it will be the poison trying to shut it down. Of all the ways to go out, being stuck by a dart and dying in Lightwood’s arms was not the way he’d imagined.

“Poison,” he grunts, “I need a knife. I’ll be done for in a couple of minutes if I don't cut it off.”

“Cut what off?”

Magnus grits his teeth through the growing pain, “My _arm_.”

Lightwood finally sees the little dart poking out of Magnus’ elbow and quickly yanks it out, tossing it aside like it’s flaming hot to the touch. Realizing the full gravity of the situation, something shifts in Lightwood's eyes. Something determined and calculating.

He exhales, rolls the tension out of his shoulders, “That's not happening.”

Lightwood immediately starts trying to wrestle Magnus out of his jacket, unbuttons Magnus' right cuff and then tears his dress shirt sleeve right down the middle as easy as ripping paper, exposing his arm all the way to the shoulder.

"What are you doing?"

"Would you shut up and let me save your life?" Lightwood snarks, taking his pocket knife out. He flicks it open, makes a small, steady incision over the puncture hole in Magnus’ arm, before he’s bending down and sealing his mouth over it.

Then he’s _sucking_.

Magnus hisses at the pinching, pulling pressure, trying to twist away from him even as he struggles to remain still. Meanwhile, Lightwood sucks and sucks with all his might, one mouthful after another, spitting what he extracts onto the red shag carpet around them. _Sucking the poison from him._

He does this for minutes on end, until Magnus’ arm is throbbing. The stinging, burning sensation has lessened considerably, and a few minutes later is gone altogether. Lightwood spits his latest mouthful of blood and takes Magnus’ face between his hands, pressing his eyelids back to check his pupils, then fingering the pulse points in his neck and in the wrist of his poisoned arm. Whatever he finds has him sighing with heavy relief.

He tears a strip out of Magnus’ sleeve and ties it over the bleeding site with surprising familiarity, then gathers himself tiredly to his feet, where he unceremoniously shoves a finger down his throat and retches the remains of his last meal onto the ground.

Magnus stares incredulously. Putting two and two together, “I’m beginning to think _you_ went to med school.”

Lightwood confirms it for him with his hoarse, bile-ruined voice, wiping his mouth off.

"Yes,” he says, grimacing at the taste in his mouth, “ _I went to fucking med school_.”

  
  
  
  


They park on the side of the road after a very tense, quiet hour of driving, having ditched their hotel and taken the scenic route straight out of town. Lightwood looks him over for the fourth time by checking the veins in his arm, making him drink another lot of salt water, and eyeing his wristwatch as he tracks Magnus’ pulse. Then he’s dragging himself out of their rental with a sigh, walking a few steps down the road.

Magnus watches him make a phone call, observing the way he scuffs his boots on the road gravel. It’s probably the same person Lightwood occasionally secretly calls when he doesn’t think Magnus is paying attention. Except he’s not even trying to hide it anymore.

Magnus steps out of the car to stretch his legs, sipping on his bottle of salt water. It’s awful, but Lightwood had insisted it would help lift his low blood pressure and dilute the effects of any residual poison. It sounded like he knew what he was on about, having attended _medical school_ and all.

When Lightwood is done on his call ten minutes later, he looks Magnus directly in the eye and says, clear as day: _“I love you, too, Izzy. I’ll call again soon.”_ Then he takes his phone apart and grinds his sim card into the road with his heel, before trudging back to the car. He hesitates only briefly, then steps closer to do another check, rubbing his hand along the inside of Magnus’ arm when he’s done.

“You’re pale.”

Magnus shrugs, “You sucked a ton of blood out of me, Dracula.”

Lightwood hangs his head, as if remembering their afternoon has suddenly put a weight on his neck. He’s quiet when he speaks again, voice rough and quiet, fingers gentle on Magnus’ wrist.

“You almost died.”

Magnus rolls his eyes, “I'd tell you not to be dramatic, but that's kind of your middle name---”

“ _Enough_ , Magnus,” Lightwood sighs tiredly, gaze intense, “I know you don’t do words. Hell, I know you barely do feelings. And that’s fine. But I’m not really in the mood to do our usual back and forth right now, okay?”

He’s so painfully serious that it makes Magnus nervous, and since Magnus violently revolts against anxiety of any kind, he skips to his next emotional response option. _Anger._

He can see Lightwood’s intentions a mile away. The admission back in the brothel. The tense car ride. The blatant display of his personal life, dangled bait for him to bite on. The kid obviously wants to have a conversation, wants to provide answers to the questions Magnus refuses to ask. _Who is Izzy? Why’d you go to med school? How’d you end up being a hired assassin when you obviously have better options?_

_What the hell are you even doing with me, Lightwood?_

It makes him angrier than he’s been in recent memory. Lightwood has nudged and whinged and pouted his way for weeks, and now he's trying to make Magnus know him more than he’s comfortable with. Putting his personal life at risk by wanting to tell Magnus about it. Willing to _trust_ Magnus with it, for no apparent reason. It’s the rookiest rookie mistake to ever exist and Magnus is _mad_ at him for being so naive.

“Fine,” he says, yanking the passenger door open, “Let’s get a move on---”

Lightwood pushes it closed again, leaving his hand there, “ _Ask me,_ Magnus _._ ”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t care, Lightwood.”

He can see the kid’s reflection in the car window, pulled up to a standstill like he’s been slapped. He’s been saying Magnus’ name more and more lately, using it to burrow himself further into his life, regardless of his welcome. Magnus has made a point of doing the exact opposite, because it keeps Lightwood in his place - and it reminds himself to stay in his lane.

But he sees Lightwood readying himself in the window reflection, nostrils flaring. He knows that face and what it means. _Stubborn son of a bitch._

“I dropped out of med school after a year because---”

Magnus puts his fingers in his ears and starts growling in his throat, a low hum to drown out whatever Lightwood is spewing. It's the same level of childish Lightwood likes to use against him, but it's the fastest option short of punching the guy in the face. He leans his forehead against the edge of the car roof and does his best to ignore him - to _protect_ him, since he’s too stupid to protect himself. 

Because Lightwood has conveniently forgotten that Magnus is a hitman. And blurting details of his personal life is specifically what _not_ to do when you’re in the business of killing people and making enemies.

But for all his efforts, Magnus still hears bits and pieces, enough to form a picture against his will. Med school dropout. Dead parents. The sudden, harrowing responsibility of being the legal guardian of a 10 year old brother - with cancer. Military enlistment to help pay the medical bills. Then mercenary work. Private security. Assassin for hire. One hell of a slippery slope for a young man just trying to provide for the people he loves.

 _Fuck_. Magnus had never, ever tried to picture his origin story, but it’s even worse than he could have imagined. Just a tragic statistic, doing bad things for the right reasons. Even with all the blood on his hands, Lightwood’s a fucking _good_ guy. Nothing like Magnus.

When he starts going into detail about his three siblings, Magnus explodes.

“ _Shut up! Shut up!_ ” he yells, “I don’t need to know this!”

“Yes you do!” Lightwood shouts back, punching the window glass hard enough that Magnus hears a knuckle crack, “ _Yes you do._ Because I want to be honest with you. You’re the only person in my life I don’t have to lie to and I _trust_ you---!”

Magnus shoves him away with a hard push to the chest, sending Lightwood skittering backward on his feet.

“How the fuck you survived this long being as stupid as you are, I will never understand,” Magnus growls, “ _I'm not your boyfriend_ , Lightwood. I am nothing more than a misguided crush. I put up with your fucking tantrums because we have an endgame in play. I’m _temporary_. You’re supposed to protect yourself from guys like me. Not invite me in!”

“Guys like you?”

“Yes. _Bad_ guys.”

“I kill people to make my life _easier_ , Magnus. If anything, I'm worse,” Lightwood shakes his head at him, pitying, “I may not know where you come from or what you’ve done, but I know the important stuff. You’ve taken care of me, for _weeks_ , when you could have just abandoned me. You organized a date, and then another one when it got fucked up - and not because I yelled about it. You took a poisoned dart for me today, for no reason I can think of besides the fact that you care about me. And you _must_ care about me, because this is clearly you being a fucking coward about it.”

Magnus scoffs, “You’re delusional.”

“And you’re full of shit, Bane,” Lightwood growls back, forcing him back against the car, “Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing. I know you. You want me. You care about me. And yet you’ve warned me away at least once a day since we’ve been together. Whatever crisis you’re having right now is about _you_ , not me.”

Anger flushes through Magnus like a crashing tide, scrambling his brain between his ears until he can’t think straight. He wants to hit him, and he wants to hit him harder where he knows it will hurt, this stubborn, naive man with his heart on his sleeve. He knows Lightwood well enough to do it, even without knowing his entire life story.

Because that’s one more thing he’s learned about Alec Lightwood. Under all the finessing and dramatics, he’s just a giant softie who likes to feel needed.

“You should have let me die,” he glares at Lightwood now, watching the expression on his face change, “At least then I would have been rid of you.”

Lightwood’s jaw flexes, his teeth clenching. Nostrils flaring again. He looks downright murderous, like he wants to break Magnus apart with his bare hands. But Magnus sees beyond that. He sees grim determination on Lightwood’s stoney face. He sees him press his cards a little harder to his chest. And he sees Lightwood's heart in his eyes, taking the brutal punch of his words. Trying valiantly not to wince beneath its force.

It hits Magnus just as hard. Fist, heart, _squelch._ An unforeseen ricochet effect, careless and dooming. He breathes as he always does, waits for the guilt to go away. _In_ , two, three, four. _Out_ , two, three, four. And this time, it doesn’t fucking work.

Lightwood brandishes a hard smile, but it fails to mask the pain in his eyes. God, he's so beautiful. Even when he's sad. It makes Magnus want to rip his own hair out.

“You know what, Bane? Have it your way,” Lightwood tells him, with a casualness that does little to cover up the shake in his voice, “I’m done. _We’re_ done.”

Lightwood heads for the other side of the car and rips Magnus’ bag out of the back seat, tossing it onto the ground. Then he plonks himself into the driver’s seat, slamming the door. Magnus sees him take a pause to breathe and punch the steering wheel, before he’s starting the engine and driving away in an angry wheelspin of gravel and dirt.

Half an hour later, Magnus is walking the miles of straight road ahead of him, duffle bag slung tiredly over his shoulder. His feet are beginning to hurt in his patent leather shoes. The afternoon sun is making his face uncomfortably hot. He still feels like he’s been kicked in the ribs each time he remembers Lightwood’s sad face. It drives him even more mad to realize distance has only made it worse.

It’s too quiet without Lightwood’s incessant chatter. It’s too calm without his excitable energy buzzing away at his side. Even the bubble of his own person space feels too wide without Lightwood constantly barging into it. Magnus’ thoughts are too crowded, which make him anxious and even more furious. Where is Lightwood now? Is he going home to his family? Is he going after his boss? Is he still upset? Is he _safe?_

 _Don’t go falling in love with me, Bane_ , Lightwood’s smooth, luring voice murmurs in the back of his head. Except now it tugs at him strangely, building an awful ache inside him that is hard to ignore. As if Lightwood has scooped his innards out of his chest and run off with them, leaving Magnus to walk around with a hole he doesn’t know how to fix.

He tries to calm himself down with his usual breathing techniques, and ends up throwing his duffle as far as his waning strength will allow, kicking at the roadside grass. He roars with enough rage to clear a room, spitting furiously between his teeth at the open, country sky.

_“You fucking fuck! You fucking asshole and your fucking asshole face! FUCK YOU! Fuck you and your shit! You shitty fuckin---! FUUUUCK!”_

He’s not sure who he’s more mad at. He's not even sure who he's _yelling_ at. Lightwood would be the easy answer, but he suspects it's probably himself.

  
  
  
  
  


He manages to hitchhike his way to the next city, then grabs a shower and a few hours rest at the first motel he finds. He spends an embarrassing amount of time curled up on his motel room bed, trying not to think about Lightwood until his brain hurts. The guilt just about eats him alive. So he pulls his phone out and throws himself into recon mode.

He may not have wanted to know about Lightwood’s personal circumstances, but now he knows too much. The kid has a family who have no idea what he does to provide for them, and if he happened to die on the job, they’d never hear about it. They'd just...never get another phone call. Never see him again. Never have answers to give them closure. And all because Lightwood chose Magnus to worm his way into, like an annoyingly gorgeous parasite. It's not his fault he can't admit he cares for the kid. It's Lightwood's fault for making him care in the first place.

When he started planning for his retirement a few years ago, he had things he needed to practice on. Like disappearing, because his employer couldn't have him killed if he couldn't be found. Like learning his employer’s dirty secrets, because leverage was the second best threat when a bullet wasn't scary enough. Like tracking his employer’s finances, because when bullets and leverage didn't talk, money did. Bit by bit, he armed himself with every possible weapon he could find, so that when the day came to hang it up for good, he'd be ready.

But curiosity has him tracking Lightwood's movements all the way back to New York, where he's attempting to do exactly what Magnus had feared he would. Finishing the job they started together. Throwing himself into the wolves den without backup, like he doesn't have family waiting for him to come home. And Magnus figures now is as good of a time as any.

He packs his things, rents the most outrageous, luxury vehicle he can find in Scranton, Pennsylvania in the hopes that Lightwood is tracking _his_ movements and might get the message he's sending. And then he drives like a bat out of hell. 

There seems to be an important, top secret meeting going down in a few hours that may or may not put their employers in the same room together. And he’s not about to let Lightwood attend without his plus one.

  
  
  
  
  


The building is quiet when he arrives. Dead security guards litter the first and second levels, spilling blood across the marble floors. He detours for a moment to touch one of them on the neck. Still warm, a recent kill.

He makes his way up to the top floor where he knows his boss and Lightwood’s boss are likely getting chummy, and sees more dead bodies sprawled down the hallway. Lightwood was clearly pissed off. _Venting_. His display of carnage makes Magnus oddly warm inside.

When he finally arrives at the office door, it’s wide open, spilling low conversation into the foyer. He listens carefully to gauge the situation and where the favor falls, clutching his armed SIG Sauer in his hands. But then he hears Lightwood speaking, grunting and strangled as if he’s in pain, and Magnus throws his patience into the fucking wind.

“Magnus Bane, the _Great Destroyer_ in the flesh. How nice to finally meet you,” a man in an Armani suit sneers as he wanders in, smiling like he’s got an advantage no one knows about. With his small detail of similarly dressed henchmen flanking him, Magnus opts for the side of caution.

Magnus' boss, Sergei, pushes out from behind his desk, shooting daggers with his gaze. But Magnus’ attention is on Lightwood, who is kneeling on the floor in a mess of broken glass and scattered office decor, hands restrained behind his back by Vlad, one of the two ogrish Russian bodyguards Sergei likes to keep on him at all times. 

His beautiful face is _still_ beautiful, even with the swelling cheekbone and the bleeding nose. He doesn’t look happy to see him at all, but Magnus is too glad that he’s still alive to pay it any mind.

He turns to the Armani suit once again, “And you are?”

“John Oakland, of _Oakland and Associates_. We were just discussing---”

Magnus shoots him square between the eyes without a second thought, blowing the contents of his head across the expensive white upholstery of the office couch. The arrogant man - who put a price on Lightwood’s head and thought he could walk away from it - crumples lifelessly to the floor. Oakland’s henchmen apparently weren’t expecting someone to have the balls to shoot their boss point blank, so by the time they start coming toward him, Magnus is already shooting them down. One bullet per skull.

The fourth and final of Oakland’s dead men flops unceremoniously over the back of the couch, smashing the glass coffee table.

“Who’s next,” Magnus points his gun at Ogrish Bodyguard number one, “You?”

Sergei growls and slams his fists angrily onto his desk, his Russian accent extra prominent, “ _Maksim_. Kill the bastard.”

Bodyguard number one doesn’t get further than a step before he, too, falls flat onto his back. Bullet wound in his forehead.

Magnus lifts his gun toward Vlad, where he towers over Lightwood with one meaty fist gripping a handful of his hair - and the other holding a knife to his throat, “Let him go.”

Vlad grins, showing off a missing front tooth, “ _Orvwhat?_ ”

“I won’t warn you again,” Magnus replies, trigger finger already pulling.

The bodyguard snickers, fingers flexing on his knife grip, “ _Try it_. I’ll cut his head off before you get the---”

Magnus shoots him in the shoulder, ensuring his arm - and the knife - rears away from Lightwood’s neck, and then he shoots him in the face. _Twice,_ just because he’s mad. Vlad goes down like a ton of bricks, what’s left of his head cracking on the bookshelves. Lightwood sags where he’s kneeling, breathing hard. Stubbornly trying not to look grateful.

He’s so fucking cute Magnus wants to _yell_.

Sergei launches himself toward the gun he keeps in his desk drawer, but Magnus has just proven 7 times in under a minute that he won’t miss, so he stutters to a helpless stop when Magnus points his SIG Sauer in his direction. 

“Come take a seat, boss,” Magnus tells him, kicking at the glass beneath his shoes, “Right here on the floor. We’re gonna have ourselves a nice little chat.”

Sergei scoffs, all bluff and bolster, “You expect me to take orders from you?”

Magnus smiles, serenely, “In fact, I do. _Steve_.”

Oh, he’d loved that piece of information when he’d first discovered it years ago. Sergei - a man who called himself the great, great grandson of one of Russia’s most prominent international arms dealers - was really Steve Bryant, born and raised in a white middle class family from _Michigan._ No Russian mob DNA or real clout to speak of. Seeing the way Sergei’s - _Steve’s_ \- face goes sheet white is worth all the time he’s waited to expose him.

Magnus waves his gun at the floor, prompting Steve to slowly, reluctantly make his way around the desk.

“On your knees,” Magnus demands, taking dark satisfaction in watching his boss of 15 years bend his old bones toward the carpet. Steve winces as his kneecaps finally meet the shards of glass, and Magnus tries not to see red at the thought of Lightwood being made to do the same.

He pulls his pocket knife from his jacket and crouches down to cut the cable ties around Lightwood’s wrists, then offers a hand to help him to his feet. Lightwood looks like he’s about to ignore him, but lifts his forearm for Magnus to grab. It takes some effort, because the kid’s legs are numb and sapped of their strength, kneecaps bleeding beneath his pants. But Magnus gets him up, supporting him with an arm around the waist while he adjusts.

“You alright?” he asks quietly, hand shifting along his back. Lightwood’s anger at him holds, but it does start to soften the longer their eyes connect. 

It feels nice having him close again. The sight, the smell, the _heat_ of him immediately quells that awful separation anxiety he’s been experiencing since Lightwood ditched him on the side of the road. He feels like _himself_ again. Which is odd, because Lightwood was the one who fucked him up in the first place.

“Oh hell,” Steve laments, observing them both with startled eyes. Fake russian accent completely gone, “You fell in love with the kid? _Fucking Christ,_ Bane!”

Lightwood’s handsome face does a complete one-eighty, exploding with sudden, helpless optimism. Oh no. _No_. He doesn’t need the kid getting ideas. _Fuck!_

Magnus points his gun at his boss once again, “For _that_ , I’m taking the contents of your Swiss bank account.”

Steve sneers, “Bullshit.”

“Or should I say, I already have,” Magnus tugs his cellphone from his pocket and logs back into the UBS app, then hits the transfer button - sending Steve’s entire stash of money to one of his own burner accounts.

Steve narrows his eyes, “You’re lying.”

Magnus swipes through his phone apps, casually, like he’s ordering pizza, “Still not convinced? How about...the money you’re holding in the Ukraine?” He transfers that account, too. “Poland?” And that one. “No? How about China?”

Steve shuffles nervously now, “Even if you know where they are, there’s no way you have access to my accounts---”

“Because you’re the only one with access, right?” Magnus shrugs, “Well, that was a bit of a roadblock, I’ll admit.”

Lightwood crosses his arms over his chest, looking absolutely riveted at the unfolding of events. Magnus can’t help but feel extra smug about it.

“See, thing is, _Steve_ , when you open a bank account overseas and deposit a shitload of money, a background check is required,” he informs him, mostly for Lightwood’s benefit, “But you didn’t want anyone digging into your operation here, did you? So you used your wife as a guarantor and forged her signature. You were safe, your money was safe, and your wife didn’t need to start asking questions about all the random blood money you have stored around the world. With me so far?”

Steve looks increasingly panicked the more he goes on.

“Problem is, _I_ found out about it,” Magnus smiles, “And I’m very, very charming when I need to be.”

He crouches down to Steve’s level, bringing up a photo on his phone screen. Then he turns it toward his boss and watches delightedly as the blood drain from his face.

“Linda is a sweetheart,” Magnus explains, showing Steve a very real photo of his wife - standing and smiling _with Magnus_ , “We’ve been friends for a long time now. Funny story, we actually met at the Brooklyn Arts Charity Gala all the way back in 2016. She was alone because her husband had said he was away on business, so I did what any gentleman would do and kept her company. We hit it off really well. A little _too_ well.”

Steve starts to shake, “You son of a bitch---”

“She’s _great_ fun. Wasn’t really into the roleplaying thing, but I managed to persuade her,” Magnus gives him a dark, purposeful smirk, “Just enough to get me what I wanted.”

He taps through his phone again and plays an audio recording of one of their evenings together, where Magnus had roleplayed the part of a banker, and Linda had acted the part of the angry, scorned wife, wanting to drain her husband’s secret bank accounts for revenge. Her performance had been an inspired one - because it turned out Steve wasn’t the most attentive husband, and him having a secret love affair made more sense to her than her husband secretly running a company of hitmen.

He’s played that recording and his library of soundbites to multiple banks in the last several months, accumulating account access and logins for each of Steve’s offshore accounts without anyone’s knowledge. All in preparation for a day like today.

He stops the audio clip before it can venture into outright pornography, and puts his phone away. Lightwood looks positively scandalized. Steve looks like he’s moments away from having a heart attack.

“You thought you had it all covered, didn’t you?” Magnus sniffs, pityingly, “Fake name, fake reputation, secret family hidden only three suburbs away. I’ve got to commend the effort, though. You must really love your wife and kids to have gone to such great lengths to hide your connection to them.”

Steve is _definitely_ shaking now, “ _What do you want?_ ”

“So glad you asked. I want you to rescind the burn notice you put on my head,” Magnus gestures to Lightwood, “and the one you put on _his_ head, and I want you to leave us alone. Then I want you to retire. _Disappear_. Take your lovely wife out to a nice dinner on an island I can’t pronounce, and never come back.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll kill you,” Magnus says, light and eerie and certain in a way that Steve visibly gulps, “And then I’ll fuck your wife again, adopt your cat, and tell your two children you bribed their way into their precious ivy leagues because you didn’t think they had enough brain cells to write a goddamn essay. I will destroy you so fantastically that everyone you ever loved or respected will line up to spit on your grave. Do I make myself clear?”

“But...the company---”

“Have you not been paying attention? The company is dead in the water, Steve. Lightwood and I took out 70% of your roster. _And_ their contacts. It’s all over. Bang and Burn.”

Steve readily agrees to his terms, but not before Magnus clocks him across the face and breaks his nose. That one is for Lightwood.

  
  
  
  
  


They’re halfway across Brooklyn Bridge by the time either of them is brave enough to talk, walking tiredly as free men. Magnus sneaks glances where he can, taking in Lightwood's bruised cheekbone and the leftover smear of blood beneath his nose. He silently fumes at how good looking he is, even now, and pointedly ignores his fluttering stomach each time he feels Lightwood’s eyes slide his way.

Lightwood casually speaks first, picking a small sliver of glass out of his palm, “Why didn’t you just kill him?”

Magnus wonders that himself, “Definitely would have been easier.”

“Did you really fuck his wife?”

“Didn’t get further than a decent round of frottage before her guilt kicked in,” Magnus sighs, “Even with all his lies, she still loved him. She’s a nice woman. Deserves better than a dead husband and a whole lot of unanswered questions.”

They fall quiet again, walking several paces. Magnus has a ton of things he wants to say, but hasn’t quite figured out how to say them. He’s still working on the courage part.

Lightwood, thankfully, speaks up again, “So I guess we're unemployed now.”

“Yep,” Magnus replies. Now that retirement is here, it’s like a weight has fallen off his shoulders. But then he makes the mistake of thinking about Lightwood’s situation and the weight climbs back on, “Though I suppose that's bad news for you. Your brother...is he---?”

“In remission, going on 14 months now,” Lightwood offers a half smile, “And I have enough money set aside to send Max's _kids_ to college, so...we'll be more than fine.”

That confuses Magnus. “Then why are you still doing this? Why haven’t you quit?”

“And go back to my life and pretend I haven't killed people for money? No thanks,” Lightwood shakes his head, clearly having thought it through before, “It doesn’t matter how I choose to justify it - I'm still a killer. It just seemed easier to commit to the path than to torture myself with some bullshit redemption story, y’know? I know what I’ve done. I have my regrets. But I’d do it again if I had to.”

 _Huh_.

Magnus has never looked too closely at the moral dilemma of his chosen occupation, because it tended to poke at things that were better left untouched. And it made his gun feel heavier, which is heavy enough without the added pressure of keeping his soul accountable.

That Lightwood doesn’t seem remotely interested in excusing his choices, is largely unexpected.

Lightwood correctly observes him, “You seem surprised.”

“Guess I just wasn't expecting that from a guy like you.”

Lightwood chuckles quietly to himself, tentatively touching the back of his hand against his swollen cheek, as if to soothe it some.

“I must say, it's flattering that you put me on such a high pedestal,” he says, swinging his eyes in Magnus’ direction, “But I’d rather you didn’t. Especially if that’s the reason you don’t want to be with me.”

Magnus slows to a standstill, heart beating wildly in his chest. He hadn’t even realized it, because he’s never been one to dive willingly into the cesspool of his own weird feelings, and it’s been much easier to push Lightwood away than to admit such deep, dark self talk. But now that it’s out there, floating hazardously in the air between them, he feels tiny and unimportant. An awful combination that appears on his face for anyone walking by to see and pity.

He’s just the morally bankrupt bad guy to Lightwood’s selfless good guy, after all. Completely unworthy of anything the kid wants to offer. Except, the kid is telling him he’s not.

Lightwood stops a few paces ahead of him, peering over curiously. Blissfully unaware of what he’s done. Magnus’ heart swells in his chest, doubling in size. _Don’t go falling in love with me, Bane._

Fucking _dammit_.

Magnus clenches and unclenches his fists nervously, employing his breathing techniques to help psyche himself up. Then he’s finally stepping forward into Lightwood’s personal space, looking at him with determination.

“Alright Lightwood,” he sighs, “Brace yourself. I'm only going to say this once. Ready?”

Lightwood is adorably confused, but then he sees whatever expression Magnus currently wears on his face and starts nodding, “Yeah, okay. I'm ready.”

Magnus breathes again. _In_ , two, three, four. _Out_ , two, three, four. And then he’s saying the scariest, most honest set of words he’s ever spoken.

“I like you, Alec.”

Lightwood’s eyes dart back and forth anxiously, “...But?”

“No but,” Magnus shakes his head gently, “In fact, I may even love you.”

They stare at each other for a few moments, unsure of what to make of the situation. Magnus’ heart drums painfully, waiting for Lightwood to do something, to respond somehow. But as the moments stretch into minutes, Lightwood’s gaze begins to drift away from him, glazing over entirely. Magnus waves a hand in front of his face. Nothing.

So he waits, taking the opportunity to really look at him up close. His straight nose, miraculously unbroken. His luminescent eyes, impossibly pretty in every instance, every emotion. His full, soft mouth, bringing forth memories of kisses and smiles Magnus has been fortunate enough to receive. His striking dark hair and pale skin and his strong, warm neck, ideal for running his lips over. Magnus grows warm inside just feeling the _proximity_ of him.

Then he sees it. The small, telling curves forming in the corners of Lightwood’s lips. His bright eyes, focusing. The pink blush appearing across his unbruised cheek. Soon enough, his entire face is crinkled in barely restrained happiness. His perfect set of teeth are hidden from view, until he’s grinning so wide that they’re suddenly bursting center stage.

Lightwood then starts _turning in circles_ , arms outstretched, grinning to the sky like he wants to scream or sing a musical number loud enough for the whole world to hear.

Magnus grimaces. _He should have seen it coming_ , “Oh god. Don't do that.”

“Don't do what?”

“ _That_. You’re twirling. Stop it.”

“I'm twirling in silence. It’s the best I can do. Let me have this!”

So Magnus allows it, folding his arms and leaning against the walkway railing, attempting to appear separate to anyone driving or walking past. But the longer Lightwood carries on, the more Magnus can’t hold back his smile. _Adorable bastard._

When Lightwood finally finishes up his little performance and wanders back over, he yanks Magnus into his arms and kisses him feverishly, breathlessly, laughing and sighing between their mouths. A vibrating ball of elation. Magnus has to hold onto him just to avoid tipping backwards over the rail.

“Ow, ow,” Lightwood groans as they come up for air, wincing and chuckling with his battered face, “ _Ow_.”

“Your fault,” Magnus mutters, finding himself fussing. He wants to touch his face - to stroke it, get his hands in his hair and drag him back down - but he also wants to avoid causing him any extra pain. Quite the character development for a guy who once _shot_ him. 

When he settles his hands along Lightwood’s jaw, he gets a grateful smile for his thoughtfulness. Magnus tries not to blush. Being openly, genuinely desired by someone he actually likes is a strange, wonderful experience.

"So what now?" Lightwood beams.

"I'm going to kiss you again,” Magnus tells him, smirking when Lightwood leans in eagerly. Impatient as always, “We'll figure out the rest when I'm done."

So he kisses him, carefully and thoroughly, relishing in the happy little noises Lightwood makes against his mouth. And he doesn’t once think about stopping.


End file.
